boy, nuzzling his corn-silk head before lowering him into the crib. “It’s night-night time. Get that white blanket out of the diaper bag, would you? Yes, that’s it,” she said to C.J. Except instead of reaching for it, she said, “On second thought, why don’t you give it to him?”
“Me? Why?”
“Because it’s his ‘lovey.’ It makes him feel secure. So he’ll start associating feeling safe with you.”
“Uh, gee, Dana. I don’t know….”
“C.J.” she said firmly. “The idea’s to make him feel safe. Not you.”
Those blue eyes, gone a soft gray in the twilight, grazed hers for a moment before he nodded, then lowered the blanket into the crib. The baby grabbed it and keeled over, his eyes shutting almost immediately. C.J. stood as though paralyzed, gripping the railing.
“Good God,” he breathed, his voice littered with the shrapnel of confusion, amazement, shock. “There’s a baby sleeping in my house.”
“Now you know how I felt the past two nights. Except he didn’t do a whole lot of sleeping. Come on, we can finish up in here later.”
But when she got to the door, she turned to find C.J. still rooted to the spot, his gaze glued to the now-sleeping infant.
She opened her mouth to call him again, only to tiptoe away instead.
Hours later, C.J. lay in bed, his hands linked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Had he ever had—what had Dana called it? A “lovey?”—when he’d been a baby? Somehow, he doubted it. Although, from what she’d said when he asked her about it over pizza a little later, most babies had something they use to soothe themselves when they were by themselves—a blanket, a stuffed toy, a small pillow.
Actually, she was a font of information, especially for someone who insisted she knew nothing, really, about taking care of babies. With a pang of sympathy, he wondered how long she’d been studying up, in anticipation of being a mother herself someday. How cheated she must have felt to have had that particular opportunity ripped from her. And yet, when he’d questioned her about it, there’d been no bitterness in her voice that he could tell. Just acceptance.
Grace, he thought it was called.
C.J. hauled himself upright, his abs having plenty to say about how long it had been since he’d even set foot inside the state-of-the-art exercise room next to his bedroom. Still, there was no denying the wonder in Dana’s eyes when she looked at Ethan. Or the longing. And watching the two of them, the way they seemed to mold themselves to each other, he’d felt … ashamed. Inadequate.
And, again, envious.
He forked his hand through his hair three times in rapid succession, it finally registering that the cat had abandoned him sometime during the night. At the same time, a tiny sound came from the baby monitor next to his bed—his nod to gallantry, since Dana had been clearly dead on her feet. In the dark, C.J. stared at it, not breathing.
There it was again. Not exactly distressed, he didn’t think, but definitely a call for attention. Sort of a questioning gurgle. On a sigh, C.J. got up, adjusted the tie on his sleep pants and plodded to the other end of the house, flicking on the hall light to peer into Ethan’s room. The wide-awake baby inside turned his head toward the light, then flipped over onto his tummy, giving C.J. a broad grin through the mesh of the portable crib. A second later, C.J. caught wind of the reason behind the baby’s wakefulness.
Uh …
He scooted down the hall toward Dana’s room, both surprised and relieved to find her door open. A shaft of light from the hall sliced across the bed, where she lay sprawled in a tangle of sheets and nightgown, making cute little snuffling sounds. With an unmistakable “What the hell?” expression, the cat’s head popped up from behind the crook of her knees.
From the other room, Ethan made a noise that sounded like “Da?”
“Dana?” C.J. whispered.
Nothing. Out like a light. Although the cat prrrped at him. And Ethan let out another, more insistent, “Da?” Or maybe it was “Ba?” Hard to tell.
Resigning himself to the inevitable, C.J. released another breath and returned to the baby, who was now lying on his back, thoughtfully examining his toes with a scrunched-up expression that made C.J. chuckle in spite of … everything. Ethan swung his head around, his entire face lighting up in a huge, nearly toothless smile of welcome. Or maybe gratitude.
And way deep inside C.J.’s gut, something twinged. Like unexpectedly pulling a previously unused muscle.
“I suppose you need your diaper changed,” he said, turning on the light. Ethan, now beside himself with anticipation, started madly flapping his arms and kicking his legs, which wasn’t doing a whole lot for the smell factor.
Okay, he could do this. Just as soon as he figured out what the hell half the things in the diaper bag were for. C.J. rummaged around in the bag for a few seconds, pulling out some kind of pad thing that looked reasonable to spread underneath the kid on the changing table, followed by a diaper, powder, wipes and lotions. There. That should do it. Then he sucked in a huge breath, hauled Mr. Stinky out of the crib and over to the table, and got to it, trying to picture his own father doing this for him. Somehow, he wasn’t seeing it.
A minute or so and roughly half a container of wipes later, he heard Dana’s huge yawn behind him.
“Now you show up,” C.J. muttered, stashing the last of the wipes inside the gross diaper and cramming the whole mess into what he hoped was a bag for that purpose. But, judging from Ethan’s kicks and little squeals, the kid was clearly enjoying being sprung from the nastiness so much C.J. hadn’t had the heart to put the clean diaper on him yet.
“Sorry,” she said on another yawn. “I was really out. Uh, C.J.?”
He twisted around and thought, simply, Uh, boy. Heavy-lidded eyes. Masses of sleep-tangled hair in a thousand shades of red, brown, gold. Pale shoulders, nearly bare save for the skinny little straps holding up that nightgown. A plain thing, nothing but yards of thin white fabric skimming her unconfined breasts, falling in deeply shadowed folds to the tops of her naked feet, revealing toenails like ten little rubies. Except for where it clung just enough, here and there, to stir all sorts of unrepentantly male thoughts and musings and such. C.J. mentally shook his head. “What on earth have you been feeding this kid?”
“Food. C.J., really, this isn’t a criticism, but you might want to—”
“Oh, crap!” he yelled as a warm stream hit him square in the chest.
“—not let the air get to his … him like that.”
C. J. yanked one of the wipes from the container and started swabbing himself off. “Don’t you dare laugh.”
He heard her clear her throat. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” The gown billowed at her feet as she crossed the room. “Go get cleaned up,” she said, laughter bubbling at the edges of her words. “I’ll finish up here.”
When C.J. returned a minute later, she was bent over the crib, babbling at the baby, her voice soft and warm as a summer breeze, radiating enough femininity to drown a man in all things good and bad and everything in between. When she
